Monday, October 31, 2016

I always wanted to like Halloween

Still here?

Not you.  Me. 

Still wondering what exactly it is I'm doing.  I have a few ideas.

I vacillate between this "life less examined" thing and the creeping feeling that the overwhelming majority of my feelings don't actually mean anything at all.


So I searched the web for answers and found this:


Makes sense.  

Sunday, October 30, 2016

Goin' down the bend...

Misophonia

Some background material:  MISOPHONIA

literally "hatred of sound," was proposed in 2000 as a disorder in which negative emotions, thoughts, and physical reactions are triggered by specific sounds. It is also called ".  select sound sensitivity syndrome" and "sound-rage."[1][2] Misophonia has no classification as an auditory, neurological, or psychiatric condition, there are no standard diagnostic criteria, it is not recognized in the DSM-IV or the ICD-10, and there is little research on its prevalence or treatment. Proponents suggest misophonia can adversely affect ability to achieve life goals and to enjoy social situations. Treatment consists of developing coping strategies such as cognitive behavioral therapy and exposure therapy.

Usually associated with the sound of people eating, but I seem to have developed a sort of situational misophonia which involves a horrible aversion to the sound of people talking.  I don't recall the last time I experienced utter silence.  The monkeys chatter in my sleep.  

In the park this morning at 6 am, a moment of quiet, if not silence, but passable quiet... and then quickly broken by three men on bicycles having a shouting conversation at thirty miles per hour.

I think perhaps that people have grown terribly afraid of losing their voices, not in a laryngitis sense but in the sense of not being heard by anyone, or not being listened to.  Their defense isn't to choose what they say more carefully but to talk more often and to connect to talk more often.  If they can't connect verbally then they assail social media or texting or the comments sections in news sites.  

I, on the other hand, have grown weary of hearing people speak.  

But then again, maybe the whole, underlying point of Glossophagia is to be heard.  It is, in part, a repository for things that can't stay in my head any longer, but more than that?  Ugh... 

Saturday, October 29, 2016

Sickness

Just when you're sitting around feeling sorry for yourself the real world can sashay in and make you feel like the world's biggest pussy.  Here I was sitting here somewhere in between migraine and depression and I come across Lake Nyos.  Good night, Cameroon!  Everybody was going about their business one day when this lovely volcanic lake belched and left 1700+ unsuspecting people dead.  It's true.  The lake belched out a massive CO2 cloud that raced down two valleys at 60 mph and pretty much decimated 3 villages and all their cows, pigs and chickens.

Just like that.

I don't know why this fascinates me so but it does, at least for now.  It is entirely possible that I'll forget by tomorrow and at some point years down the line I'll come across the story again like it's the first time and I'll say,

Holy shit, that's fucked up.

Just like the very first time.  I can't even say I've never read about Lake Nyos before today, so there you go.

Life is pretty tenuous.

Not a fucking clue...

But that's okay.

Kinda over this stuff.

Thursday, October 27, 2016

MacGregor Samsa?

Five years ago today I fully grasped Metamorphosis for the very first time.  Schools give these books to children long before they have the life experience or any real capability to understand them.  Kafka is wasted on youth.  Sartre as well.

Would you call this growth or is it merely the necessity of being alive long enough to devolve to the level of base awareness.  For all the delusions of humanity to erode and crumble away like dry mud. 

So what do you tell kids in the meanwhile when they feel you are wasting their time?
Don't worry.  You're going to just wake up one day thirty years from now and have a holy shit moment.

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

All His Children?

Something so simple as having a set of keys so often taken for granted. Is there a holy being that wouldn't condemn us for letting this happen?

It's more apparent now with the cold weather.  More of the lost tribes are coming underground and the ones still out on the street become more obvious.  They are ill-equipped for even a mild winter, probably the only souls who may benefit even a little from this global warming thing. 

I have keys for now and further away from being without than just a year ago.  It was probably never as close as it seemed but heading off to housing court in the early days of November was humbling. 

If you're up there you son of a bitch you better wake up and mind your children.  Even the bad ones.  Don't talk to me about compassion and responsibility and then do jack shit about this.

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

Sunday, October 23, 2016

Slimer


Selfie Exploration


It's wearying, really.

Wearisome.

Worrisome. 

Where does one quit?  This journey of self-examination or self-exploration or self-analysis or self-flagellation or self-aggrandizement or self-defeat or self-whatnot?  Do you stop when you get to a level of something that you can live with?  Do you stop at all?

I feel like stopping right here.  I don't feel like playing anymore.  I don't feel like learning anything more about myself or taking inventory of what I did yesterday or today or ten years ago or whenever.  I don't care, or well, I do but I don't want to care as much as I do.

Granted I care a lot less.  It's not so much a question of not giving a fuck as being more comfortable just being me so that's saying something, but I'm really weary of putting in the work, even if there are more than a few people who would say I need to try a little bit harder.

Or a lot.  

It may appear in the photo above that I am looking skyward in defeat or supplication, like maybe I'm surrendering finally and looking to the heavens above for succor.  

I'm not.

I'm offering you my throat to do what you will.  You can't hurt me.

You can't hurt me.  

Six years and ten months today.  Lucky Seven around the corner.  

Saturday, October 22, 2016

Prospect Park 7 AM

Prospect Park 6:30 AM

Shades of blue.

Your morning cup of WTF

Random Baby Doll Leg would make an awesome band name but isn't this too random to be random at 7 am?

Stuff

Getting ready to do another housecleaning... I have tons of stuff I don't remember bringing home. 

Friday, October 21, 2016

What the fuck are you looking at?

Not a single fuck was given.

The Insanity of Sanity

I'm starting this not knowing quite what I intend to say nor with any set goal or direction.  It's about throwing bones maybe, and seeing how it reads when it's all stopped rolling.

It has something to do with the phrase, "restore us to sanity," but the intent isn't to poke about in adolescent philosophy.  It's part of the 12 Steps line, "and only a power greater than ourselves can restore us to sanity."  We can leave the higher power bit out of it.  It's inconsequential to what's nibbling at me.  No argument there.  Just trust me.

So it's winding down slowly to seven years without a drink or a drug stronger than ibuprofen.  It's not a condition I would or could have imagined even eight years ago yet here it is, two months away from seven years clean and sober.  Have I been restored to sanity?  Yah, maybe.  The jury is out on that. It would probably depend on who you ask.  People have called me angry.  Others have described me as a dry drunk.  It's entirely possible that their higher power, in his infinite wisdom since he makes no mistakes and everything happens for a reason, made me exactly as they see me.  It's possible that he creates assholes and angry men as part of his system of checks and balances.  Who knows?

I know I feel okay.  Better, in fact, than at any point in my life.  There's something to be said for this self acceptance trip.  I won't say I'm quite there but it's closer than ever.  I'm okay.  The issue remains that some days it would be nice to numb out and dip into the "old-fashioned" insanity.  The desire not to feel every little damn thing seems perfectly sane to me.  The craving for a quiet mind doesn't seem entirely unreasonable.

But yes, at what cost?  That doesn't escape me.  I'm still paying old debts, both spiritually and monetarily.  There are still days and weeks of being frozen in place.  It's not a switch with me.  It's more of a wide gate and once it swings open then that's pretty much it. 

It's just interesting to discover that sobriety and sanity aren't necessarily the same thing.  The Crocodiles told me that at five years I would get my brains back.  That wasn't a lie but they could have warned me that it might not come back in one piece.  It just didnt.  I might have asked for someone else's had I known.

How was anything supposed to restore me to sanity when I was never sane to begin with?  And why bother when everything else is fucking nuts?   That's all i want to know.

Expectations again.  Have fewer expectations and you'll have fewer disappontments.

This will be another placeholder.  There is a mouse in my head, nibbling holes in the fabric of what i had thought would be this sanity thing.

I don't want to drink but I won't lie and say this always feels good.

Thursday, October 20, 2016

No thanks.

A friend told me a few nights ago that they found my lack of faith in their god troublesome.  Um...

I would stop short of calling myself an atheist, and wouldn't carry on about if i were.  There isn't much more annoying than an evangelical atheist, and so many are.  They self identify with no rhyme or reason faster than any religious sort I've ever met.

But at the same time, I'm not interested.  Try as I may I can't wrap my brain around an entity cruel enough to conjure up childhood leukemia but forgiving enough to give humanity a pass for Aleppo. 

Please save your prayers.  I am fine.

No thanks.

Your child is on drugs. Trust me.



Is your child often argumentative and hostile when criticized?

Um... yes... but he's two, and I'm not sure if he can motor far enough on his fat little toddler legs to get to the dope spot and back.  Should I be worried?

Does your child make or receive strange phone calls?

Yes, and he doesn't even have a phone.  I should call someone, right?


Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Who ya gonna call?

Commuting

I almost feel guilty capturing such a private moment.  And it's weird that mothers do this all day every day but it's somehow more impactful to see a young child asleep on its father's chest. 

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

Peanuts



I'm thinking tonight about nostalgia, and I'm thinking about things that The Crocodiles always say, like "feelings aren't facts."  I'll one-up that and say that no, feelings are not facts, and furthermore, Nostalgia is a pathologicially dishonest beast.  

Those Amazing Mets



I don't usually mess with sports stuff but this is artful.  It also recalls an interesting time in my life, immersed to my eyebrows in liquor and drugs... Chaotic and often unpleasant and sometimes violent, but not necessarily bad.

Not necessarily.

You have to have lived that way to understand that.

Monday, October 17, 2016

Finalist? Fuck you.

Prospect Park Once More

Growth? Maybe.

It can be said of most people who dabble in the arts, probably, that each writer or painter or sculptor, is their own harshest critic.  Who am I to wreck that flow or bend rules? 

I spent some time yesterday mining ancient scrolls, brushing away dust and picking away the decay.  The final decision remains that a career away from writing, prose or otherwise, was never such a bad idea.  The revelation, however, is that there has been marked growth as a person and as an adult person.  Some may argue that this statement is either too kind or too optimistic but I'm sticking with it.

I am sticking with it. 

Sunday, October 16, 2016

Matt Black



People of Clouds (more)

Prospect Park

Sunday night and the park has been filled this weekend.  It's been warmer and sunny but some of the trees have gone red and orange and there's a sense that something less hospitable is coming. 

A father though was at the edge of the lake teaching his son to skip rocks on the water and I felt something good and real like not the delusional nostalgia that we all suffer from sometimes.  There were autumn days like this one way back and a few not so way back and they were good.

They were real.